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by thelightofmorning



Series: Blood of the Aurelii [4]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Adultery, Canon-Typical Violence, Corpse Desecration, Death, Fantastic Racism, Genocide, Imprisonment, M/M, Religious Conflict, War Crimes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-20
Updated: 2020-04-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:27:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23749933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelightofmorning/pseuds/thelightofmorning
Summary: Irkand Aurelius is an old assassin without a home. Skjor offers one with a chance of a new life. It isn't perfect, but what is?
Relationships: Skjor/Original Male Character
Series: Blood of the Aurelii [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1695604
Comments: 8
Kudos: 26





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**Author's Note:**

> Note: Thanks for reading and reviewing. Trigger warning for death, violence, fantastic racism, corpse desecration and mentions of genocide, war crimes, imprisonment, adultery and religious conflict. The Skjor/Irkand story I promised, folks! I'm writing in an already-established backstory because I'm too lazy to develop the romance, lol.

The necromancer was chanting gutturally, hands weaving intricately as the dead of this place rose at his command. Altmer, pasty yellow and tawny-eyed, face contorted into a sneer. “I knew coming here would lure you out of the shadows,” he snickered. “Now do me the favour of dyin-ack!”

_It was very hard to gloat,_ Irkand mused as he stepped back in surprise, _with a steel sword shoved through your neck._

The blade, a peculiar blue-silver in colour where it wasn’t reddened by blood, slid smoothly back out and the necromancer clutched at his throat futilely. Its owner swung down hard and fast in a classical Legion diagonal slash, cutting off head and hands, and the mer collapsed in a boneless twitching heap.

“What _is_ it about Altmer and bad villainous melodrama?” Skjor asked as he wiped his sword on the necromancer’s robes.

“I suppose when you live for a few centuries, things get old and cliched real fast,” Irkand answered with an incredulous laugh. “Your timing is impeccable as always. This bastard was trying raise the Blades – my brethren – against me.”

“Thinking that sentiment would soften your blade,” Skjor agreed contemptuously. He’d gone bald in the last few years, the remainder of his hair pulled into a long tail at the back, and his scarred eye gleamed like Secunda in the twilight cloaking Cloud Ruler Temple. The wolf-emblazoned plate was new to Irkand; he felt he should know where it came from, but he couldn’t. He never expected the Legionary-turned-mercenary to join a fighting order. “Those you love are either dead and beyond his reach… or alive, beyond his reach and quite capable of kicking his pasty yellow arse if he should’ve tried.”

Irkand snorted in amusement. “Sentiment has no place in my battles. It’s good to see you again.”

“And you.” Skjor favoured the skeletons surrounding them with a disgusted glance. “Why hasn’t Mede let them be buried yet?”

“Because it’s a cheaper object lesson than crucifying a few fresh Nords,” Irkand said with a sigh. “Though from what I hear, eastern Skyrim’s going to sprout crosses soon.”

“Ha! Mede wishes. Sigdrifa and Ulfric are competent enough to give the Legion a run for its money. You truly don’t know the resentment in Skyrim, even after the recent embarrassments the Stormcloaks have suffered.” Skjor jerked his chin in the direct of the Pale Pass Inn. “There’s a lot I need to catch you up on. The past three years have been interesting, in particular for your family.”

“I know Callaina fled the draft,” he said slowly. “If Tullius gets a hold of her-“

“The General will be spitting teeth the first time and guts the second time if he tries to conscript her after she paid her scutage to the Legion in Solitude,” Skjor interrupted in grim amusement. “Korli’s got a mean right hook, a sharp shortsword and the arms of a blacksmith now.”

He thought of his scrawny, undersized niece and tried to imagine her with muscle and weapons. It wasn’t happening. “Oh? I wouldn’t think anyone would hire the last of the Aurelii.”

“Eorlund didn’t give a shit. She’s a wonder-smith now…” Skjor’s smile was now wolfish. “And Harbinger of the Companions of Jorrvaskr.”

_“What?”_ Irkand yelped in shock.

“Kodlak saw her coming. I’ve been with the Companions since… oh… ’77. She joined up in ’85 and now it’s ’88. One of the fastest rises from whelp to Harbinger in Jorrvaskr’s history. But she’s earned it.” Skjor led him from the graveyard that had once been Irkand’s home. “Along the way, she cemented a pact between Hammerfell, Orsinium and the Reach, spent about a year and a half in Orsinium and Elinhir reconnecting with her Orcish and Redguard relatives, helped create a kind of peace between the Forsworn and Jarl Igmund, reforged Wuuthrad and… you’ll love this… beat the ever-loving shit out of Sigdrifa Stormsword in front of the Jarls at last summer’s Moot.”

Irkand had to laugh at the last one. “I’d have given good coin to watch that.”

“You and half of Skyrim. The rate of assassination among Imperial officers and officials has dropped by about ninety percent since Sigdrifa’s pulled her head in. I think, in a twisted way, the Stormsword’s proud of her daughter.”

“It’s been three years since she ran away from Bruma?” Irkand couldn’t believe time had flown so fast. He’d always meant to find her but necromancers kept on popping up like mushrooms after rain and there were few Knights of the Circle with the kill rate he had.

“It has. There’s more to come.” Skjor’s voice had turned grim. “Based on our histories and observations, Korli might very well be Dragonborn like the Septims of old.”

“If Mede and the Elder Council find out, they’ll kill her,” Irkand whispered, appalled.

“I think you’ll find Kyne Herself will intercede directly. Vilkas – our chronicler and arms master – has been researching everything we can and I can name two literal direct Aedric interventions in the past three years – and possibly one from the Madgoddess.” Skjor looked over his shoulder at Irkand. “The first was when she brought back a sapling from the Eldergleam, a tree sacred to Kyne; the second was during an ‘astrological fuckup’ in Elinhir, to quote your brother; and the third was when Silver Hand – scum bastards who hunted Companions because some of us were werewolves – captured her in the Reach. She went berserk and killed fifteen of them that time.”

“The Red Rage,” Irkand said softly. “It’s a ‘gift’ from our ancestress.”

“And a bloody useful one.” They reached Pale Pass and could see the lights of the inn from here. “Since she’s muzzled the Stormsword and destroyed the Stormcloaks of the Reach, the Empire will leave her be. You know Rikke-“

“’If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it’,” Irkand finished. “You’ve spoken to Rustem?”

“Yes. He still wants you dead. That’s his problem, even after Korli told him what she knew about Red Ring.” Skjor blew out an explosive breath. “Your niece once told me that you could have been a Companion if I’d been a better friend and brought you to Jorrvaskr after the Great War. That’s why I’m here. Rustem’s a prick, but he isn’t stupid, and the Children of Satakal won’t go after you if you’re a Companion.”

“I can handle a few assassins,” Irkand said, offended at the implication.

“In a straight-out fight, Rustem would win,” Skjor retorted flatly. “He’s pushing fifty and he’s still in amazing shape. Rustem is a murderer, not an assassin – he’ll come straight for you and believe me, he’ll find you. You against Astrid and her ilk, even ten to one I’d put my money on you. But Rustem has always been a better fighter than you. You’ve just been better at sneaking.”

The warrior sighed. “I don’t want Rustem killing you and putting Korli in a bad spot. She’s reconciled with him and… well, she and Sigdrifa can be in the same room without killing each these days, a necessity when the Harbinger is the arbiter of disputes of honour between Jarls. If what Vilkas has turned up in his research is true, Ulfric and Sigdrifa are going to kill the High King… and we’ve got a copy of the Prophecy of the Last Dragonborn too in Jorrvaskr’s archives.”

Irkand stopped dead. “You’re joking.”

“I wish. Korli… Well, Danica told me she’s not being _allowed_ to realise things because she’s not quite ready. But there’s been some dire portents and Vilkas thinks we’re one sign away from Alduin’s return.” Skjor smiled wryly. “You’re the last of the true Blades. Don’t you want to help kick Alduin’s arse?”

“Delphine and Esbern survived-“

“He’s up at the College but the Thalmor are already sniffing around. She’s bought a pub in Riverwood, near the border.” Now Skjor’s smile was wolfish. “We should stop by and piss her off.”

Irkand laughed. “I’m surprised she hasn’t gone to Elinhir to be with Rustem.”

“Mr ‘Absolutely Incapable of Fidelity’? Safiya just lets him do his own thing and points him in the direction of her enemies. It’s worked for the past thirteen or so years.” Skjor smirked. “I was thinking of you, me and a room for old times’ sake. The woman I thought I’d be mated to as a werewolf fell in love with Jorrvaskr’s village idiot and while Vilkas is into men, he’s a surly little bastard who needs an attitude adjustment.”

“You’re a werewolf now?” Irkand asked, stopping in his tracks.

“I was. Got myself cured after a chat with your niece. Ever been chewed out by a girl young enough to be your daughter about how you were breaking apart the Companions by undermining the Harbinger? I have. She’s definitely Sigdrifa’s daughter when it comes to chewing someone out.”

Despite himself, Irkand laughed. “She must be popular with the other Companions.”

“When she came, I honestly expected her and Farkas to get together – he’s an idiot and she’s got brains for two of them – but he became a werewolf and mated with Aela.” Skjor sighed. “Terrfyg’s bargain… The Jorrvaskr pack can shift at will and maintain their sentience in beast form. But I had no desire to be a lone wolf on the edge of things.”

“I know what that’s like,” Irkand agreed sympathetically. “I’m up for sharing a bed… but in Delphine’s pub. Two birds, one stone.”

Skjor laughed uproariously and they headed for the inn.

…

If looks could have killed, the glare Delphine bestowed on Irkand and Skjor as they emerged from the room they’d hired at the Sleeping Giant would have incinerated them. Irkand stretched long and luxuriantly, giving her a cheerful smile. Petty of him, but worth it.

There were necromancers who’d escaped to Skyrim and so he got Runil, the Priest of Arkay in Falkreath, to authorise him staying in the northern province until they were all dead. Skjor, being a helpful chap, offered a bed at Jorrvaskr – and it wasn’t unusual for warriors of renown to stay there for a season or more to share their skills with the Companions. If it should be longer…

“It’s an overturned boat,” Irkand said in disbelief on seeing Jorrvaskr. Whiterun was a pretty, prosperous, little city that grew fat on the idiocy of the surrounding Jarls; Balgruuf sounded almost Colovian in his sensibility and Nibenese in his trading skills.

“Well, yes. Jeek of the River turned it into his mead-hall to symbolise the Companions’ origins.” Skjor rubbed his hands. “Korli will probably be up at the Skyforge.”

“Callaina,” Irkand corrected as they climbed the stairs.

“Korli. Her choice. It sounds more Nord, I suppose.” Skjor nodded to the compact, curvaceous brunette who worked the bellows as a grizzled blacksmith hammered something into shape. “That’s our glorious Harbinger, never too good to do an apprentice’s work.”

“That was a quick trip to Cyrodiil,” the brunette retorted in a low, husky contralto. “Did the Cyrods kick you out as soon as you came in?”

“Some Altmer with a death wish decided to try and raise the dead of Cloud Ruler Temple,” Skjor said calmly. “Irkand was in the processes of correcting him when I arrived to lend a hand.”

“You saved him, didn’t you?” Callaina… Korli… asked dryly.

“Yeah.”

The blacksmith – who had to be Eorlund – quenched the sword he’d been working. “Who’s Irkand when he’s at home?”

“My uncle,” Korli told him.

“The Imperial one.” The Nord’s tone said plenty about _that_.

“I am loyal to the Empire, yes,” Irkand answered coolly.

“The Companions are apolitical,” Korli said calmly. “I only entered the holmgang with my mother to take her to task for the dishonour of her actions… and beat the shit out of her.”

She folded her arms. “You’re welcome to stay here, Uncle. But there will be no killing for the Empire while you’re in these halls. Mother knows if I catch wind of her sending out assassins, I’ll be having words with her. For the sake of neutrality, I’m holding you to the same standards.”

“Callaina-“ Irkand began, only to be shut down with a scathing blue-green glance.

“You’ve been a tool for as long as I can remember,” Korli said acidly. “There are no masters or servants in Jorrvaskr, though junior Companions are expected to obey the orders of a senior Companion in the training circle or on a job, _within reason_. You have the opportunity to learn both independence and honour. I highly suggest you take advantage of it.”

With those words, she stomped off downstairs, leaving Irkand bemused.

“She _is_ her mother’s daughter,” he muttered, earning a laugh from Skjor.

“So don’t be an idiot,” Eorlund suggested. “Kodlak made Korli his successor for a reason – because she was the only one who stood for what was right, even in the face of an honour-debt, and did so in such a manner as to not undermine either the Harbinger or break the Circle.”

Irkand gave the blacksmith a glare, who snorted and went over to the grinding wheel to sharpen a sword.

“The others won’t be so bad. Except for Vilkas,” Skjor assured Irkand. “Vilkas is just a pain in the arse – and not in a good way either.”

Sadly, the smoulderingly attractive Vilkas lived up to his name when he looked Irkand over and asked, “So you’re the legendary Irkand Aurelius? Well, you’ll learn how to fight honourably in the battle-circle under _my_ eye.”

Irkand reminded himself that stabbing Vilkas wasn’t an option, not if he wanted to remain on Korli’s good side.

Skjor, praise the gods, had his own room. So did Vorstag and Cosnach, who were lovers, and the wedded Aela and Farkas. No one shared with Vilkas (Irkand couldn’t imagine why) and Korli had two rooms to herself, one of which was an office. Athis lived in an alcove off the feasting hall while Golldir slept in the whelps’ quarters.

“Just like old times, right?” Skjor asked as they headed up to dinner. “Only less elves and madmen.”

Irkand had to laugh. “I suppose so.”

The weeks passed in a tranquil stream, interspersed with random bouts of violence involving bandits and necromancers, and winter had ripened into spring before Irkand even realised it. Korli celebrated her twenty-first birthday on Heart’s Day with the Grey-Manes, who’d adopted her, and had a visit from her younger brother Bjarni, who was accompanied by a golden-haired warrior named Ralof. Gifts came for her from Elinhir and Orsinium and the Reach, from cousins and relatives Irkand never knew she – they – had.

“War-Chief of the Companions by twenty-one!” observed Ghurug, son of the High Chief Tarlak of Orsinium – another descendant of Aurelia Northstar’s father Agol. “Will you be High Chief of the Nords by thirty?”

“I doubt it. The Harbinger doesn’t rule and can’t become a Jarl.” Korli smiled wryly. “Could you imagine me as a chief?”

“You’d make a damned good one. Dengeir’s really beginning to get on Da’s nerves.” Ghurug downed some mead. “Can you believe Ulfric sent us an ambassador?”

“Amazing, he might actually have a brain,” Korli said dryly. “How’s Korul?”

“We had our first child last spring. A daughter.” Ghurug was smiling. “I’m now chief of Mashog Yar Agol. Nanrak turned out to be a wisewoman of Malacath, born that way. She and Yarok are getting married next year.”

“How can one be ‘born’ a wisewoman? I thought it was the chief’s mother,” Irkand asked Skjor quietly.

“Orcish tradition. We Nords have something similar. Sometimes people aren’t the gender everyone thought they were when they were born.” Skjor shrugged.

“I’ll send an appropriate present,” Korli promised warmly.

After several hours, Irkand removed himself. So many people around him, most of whom seemed to think well of Rustem, got on his nerves and now most of them were drunk, which jangled his ears.

He was walking down to the marketplace when, out of the crowds, Rustem appeared with a falsely genial smile. “I heard you’d come slinking out of the shadows,” his brother remarked, his naginata rested across his shoulders.

“No trouble,” Skjor said tersely, coming up from behind Irkand. “He’s staying at Jorrvaskr with me.”

“I’m not here to make trouble. It’s Korli’s birthday and she’d kick my ass if I tried.”

“Amazing,” Irkand observed. “You’ve learned some restraint.”

“You don’t need to fear me, Irkand. Korli still seems to care for you and I respect that. That girl’s got a big heart, thank the gods. She’s going to need it.” Rustem’s smile didn’t waver. “I still think you’re a cunt.”

“Takes one to know one!” Irkand snapped. “And what do you know about Korli, hmm?”

“I know what she is. And if anyone’s stupid enough to send assassins after her, I’ll be the one to deal with them.”

“The party’s being held at the Grey-Manes’,” Skjor told Rustem pointedly. “Could you not be a dick for a day?”

“Hey, if Sigdrifa can learn to behave, there’s hope for me.” Rustem’s smile to Skjor was genuine. “For a great man, you have lousy taste in lovers.”

“I never fucked Delphine,” Skjor retorted pleasantly.

“I never said my taste was the best,” Rustem answered mildly. “Irkand, a word of advice – stay in Jorrvaskr. Become a Companion. Because there’s a reckoning coming and you really don’t want to get in my way.”

“If you threaten the Empire,” Irkand said softly.

“Way I see it, I’ll be doing it a favour.” Rustem smiled again. “Mede isn’t worth dying for. That’s the only brotherly advice you’ll get from me.”

He turned on his heel and went, whistling, to the Grey-Manes’ house.

“He’s trying to bait you,” Skjor said slowly. “Don’t react.”

“If he thinks I’m going to stand by and-“ Irkand throttled back the outrage. “Is it allowable to warn the Penitus Oculatus?”

“That’s up to your sense of honour.” Skjor sighed. “But I know Rustem. He’s developed a lot of patience over the past thirteen years and his backers have a lot more. He’ll just wait until the concern dies down, and then strike.”

“Arkay above, I despise the man,” Irkand said bitterly.

“So do I, but he’s the Harbinger’s father and Korli says he’s a product of his circumstances.” Skjor squeezed his shoulder. “Come on, let’s go home.”

Home. Irkand supposed that Jorrvaskr was that.

“Yes. Let’s go… home.”

He’d still warn Rikke though. She was just as patient as Rustem was – and a great deal more intelligent.


End file.
